Page 17 of Lovesick
Yeah, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Maybe Crew’s never been royally screwed over in his life, but trusting people doesn’t come easily to someone like me. Someone who gives and gives andgiveseven after all the love runs out. I learned quickly that fragile hearts are the most susceptible to pain, but to live a life with a guarded one is a sentence worse than death.
I don’t have one-sided beef with hockey players because they’re the actual devil’s spawn. I have one-sided beef with hockey players because I was on the receiving end of a nasty breakup with one.
My sophomore year at Rutgers University, I met the sweetest guy at a frat party my roommate dragged me to. Parties were never my scene. I was a simple gal—my ideal Friday night consisted of some much-needed bed rotting, a serving dish of Kraft Mac & Cheese, and some trashy reality television. Socializing with people who had a BAC over 0.08 percent wasn’t my idea of fun. But Ashley Tonnelli—Chi Phi’s sweetheart and my annoyingly persistent roommate—would rather have her acrylics ripped off one by one than miss out on any event that included limitless alcohol and half-naked men.
So, “offering humanitarian aid to those with a popularity deficit,” as she put it, she yanked a low-cut, green top over my head, pulled me by my scruff all the way to a stoplight party, and then left me to fend for myself while she flirted with the entire soccer team. Apparently, wearing green meant that I was single and available. Which, granted, I was, but if I’d known she was serving me up on a silver platter, I would’ve fought harder to maintain my dignity.
After accidentally barging in on a threesome, a throng of kids snorting Adderall, and a lap dance—no, not all in the same room—I was about to call it quits when I bumped into a man carrying an overflowing Solo cup of beer. Long story short, he spilled the entire thing on me, apologized profusely, andoffered to give me one of his shirts since he was in the frat. That was the beginning of everything.
Felix Marchek.
The first red flag should’ve been that he was a part of a frat. The second red flag should’ve been that he was a hockey player.
But I was dumb and impressionable, and he knew just the right things to say. Our relationship was pretty standard. It was easy to talk to him, and he had this way of making me feel like I was the only girl in the world. Little did I know that there weredefinitelyother girls.
Felix knew about my heart condition. I told him about a month into our relationship, and he took it surprisingly well. He didn’t treat me any differently. He didn’t view me as incapable. I wasn’t used to that kind of reaction, so, understandably, it made me fall for him even harder.
I’ve lived the majority of my life in hospitals, surrounded by the smell of antiseptics and death. Speaking of death, I was close to it—too close—during my team jazz performance representing Rutgers University at the Universal Dance Association College Nationals. The UDA Nationals are one of the most prestigious dance competitions of all time, and collegiate teams from all over the world compete for the title of national champion.
One second, I was pouring my heart out on stage, and the next, I was waking up in the back of an ambulance with little recollection of collapsing.
My doctor said that if the passing out became constant, I’d be at risk of experiencing a heart attack or stroke. I know that sounds bad, but this was the first time I’d ever collapsed. The possibility of it happening again was slim to none. It was predicted that it must’ve been brought on by overexertion and concerningly high stress levels.
The video of my accident at UDA Nationals spread like wildfire. It was embarrassing to say the least. What was even more embarrassing, though, was the fact that Felix cheated on me while I was recovering in the hospital. He never came to visit me; he never asked me if I was okay; he never called—he disappeared off the face of the earth. I only found out about his infidelity when Ashley caught it on video at an exchange.
I was never familiar with devastation until then. His betrayal was like a serrated knife through my gut. A part of me wished that I’d died up on that stage. I was so tired of feeling. I just wanted everything to stop.
When I rallied the courage to confront him after I got discharged, he didn’t even try to sugarcoat anything. He didn’t try to absolve himself. He told me brazenly that I was dead weight—thathewas actually the victim in this situation because his teammates constantly poked fun at the fact that there was something wrong with me. They gave him grief for being with the sick girl.
He was too much of a coward to stand up for me.
My incident was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Now the whole school knew that I was a ticking time bomb waiting to drop dead at any moment. There I was, oblivious to the fact that the entire hockey team thought I was a loser and that there was a roster of girls waiting for Felix’s attention the minute he inevitably dumped me. I was nothing but a laughingstock.
I made a promise to myself, fighting for my life in that hospital bed, that I’d never give anyone the chance to hurt me again. I never told my parents the full story. If they knew everything that happened, they’d never let me date again.
After Felix, I don’t trust Crew not to treat me like some breakable burden if he were to ever find out about my heart condition. Besides, with trust comes a deeper relationship, and a future isn’t really something I think about often. Growingclose to someone is a privilege, not a promise. That includes marriage and a family. I mean, how am I supposed to potentially walk down the aisle and say “I do” to my future husband knowing that he’ll have to be my caretaker for the rest of his life?
I stab the mixed greens on my plate with a fork, swirling the sodden leaves around in a small lake of balsamic vinaigrette. I’d normally eat this up in a heartbeat, but with everything that’s come to light tonight, my appetite is nonexistent. My mother slaved away in the kitchen for hours prior to Crew’s arrival. If I’d known he was our guest of honor, I would’ve told her to throw him a Pop-Tart and call it a day.
I force myself to eat what little my stomach will allow, and I wince when the nauseating mix of food turns to sludge beneath my molars. Crew, however, is shoveling lemon chicken and orzo into his mouth like the damn plate will be taken from him at any moment.
My father, still thankfully unsuspecting, looks at Crew with a sort of pride that I’ve never seen before—shy, new, and just a tad bit enviable. I’ve seen him grow close to his players over the years, but it’s never been like this before.
Suddenly, indignation licks between my shoulder blades as I tighten the grip around my utensil. I’d be lying if I said that stabbing Crew hadn’t crossed my mind. This stupid, clueless hockey player has somehow infiltrated every aspect of my life in less than a week. My dad likes him, my mom likes him, the whole school probably likes him. And now I’ll undoubtedly have to see him on a regular basis when I was more than content with tucking him and the memory of that night far into the recesses of my brain.
“You know, with Crew’s talent and skill level, he’ll be signed to the NHL in no time,” my father boasts, compiling a conglomeration of chicken and salad on his fork kabob-style. “If he werestill eligible, he probably would’ve been this year’s top draft pick.”
Pish, that’s notthatimpressive. It’s not like he’sinthe NHL.
“That’s wonderful,” my mother gushes, apparently not immune to whatever look-at-me-I’m-so-great signals Crew is emitting like he’s a goddamn satellite dish. “What an accomplishment at such a young age.”
“Uh, thanks,” Crew muffles around a mouthful of food.
Uh, thanks, I repeat in a low, very accurate imitation of his voice in my head.
I mutter under my breath, choosing to fill my piehole instead of using said piehole to divulge just how little I want to be at this kiss-ass party.
